


Umbra Sumus

by alpacamyhedgehog



Category: Forever (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Gen, Villains to Heroes, dark!Henry Morgan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-12
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2018-04-19 07:00:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4737083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alpacamyhedgehog/pseuds/alpacamyhedgehog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Adam meets a mysterious stranger with a dark secret. A Forever Hero/Villain swap AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Umbra Sumus

Sometimes songs ran through the barista’s head; today it was not a melody but a sentence that pounded rhythmically in his mind. _Umbra sumus_. It coursed dully through his body like a headache as the busy day progressed, and he tried to brush it away with thoughts of the work at hand.

An earworm, his young coworkers would have called it. Ah, you see, there are perks to working around young people. Always the latest terminology. The ever-changing richness of language never ceased to interest him, and he collected words and phrases like coins, turning them over in his mind to examine their many sides and functions.

Over the course of the past two thousand plus years, however, this was the one sentence that came back to him most often. Two words, a trochaic dactyl in Latin and in English: _umbra sumus,_ we are shadows. It had been the motto on the sundial at his villa, countless lifetimes ago. He hadn’t thought anything of it when he’d had it made; it was just another catchy phrase, and everyone else in his social circle had one on their sundials at their villas. Tempus fugit, et cetera.

As his life stretched out longer than the dusky shadow of the trees in the villa’s courtyard, though, the motto and its meaning returned to him over and over. He had heard it in the rumble of wooden wheels on a Roman road, in the clang and echo of workmen’s hammers on stone, in the deafening clatter of factory machinery, in the clacking of an office typewriter, and now in the slow whine of the espresso machine. The rhythm of life had droned on for two millennia, while his own history overshadowed generations as the shade of a great oak surpasses that of a blade of grass.

Before his thoughts could engulf him fully, the bell rang on the coffee shop door, jolting him alert. He was rewarded for the effort when he saw the woman who walked into the shop.

“Ah, Detective Martinez,” he called as she approached the counter. He enjoyed getting to know customers at the small coffee shop that he ran. It allowed him to form a sort of temporary community, a camaraderie rooted in coffee and tea and assorted baked goods. Over time, however, his connection with Jo Martinez had grown deeper than her daily coffee order. It was one of the customer-proprietor relationships he cherished most these days; she seemed to relish talking with him and hearing about some of his accomplishments (only the most recent ones, of course), and in turn, his reticence warmed to her friendly banter. Over the past few weeks, he had found more and more excuses to talk with her when she came in, and she didn’t seem to mind that she lingered longer over her coffee these days, her current library book untouched.

Today, however, three men accompanied her into the shop. He recognized her partner, Detective Hanson, who occasionally dropped by for a macchiato before work, but he didn’t know the other two. Both were tall, one weedy and awkward, the other in complete control of himself and devouring his surroundings with flashing dark eyes.

“I brought you some extra customers today,” Jo said brightly, tapping her fingers on the edge of the counter.

“So I see. To what do I owe the honor?” “Strictly business. We wanted a change of scenery while we discuss our latest case.” She leaned closer, an apologetic smile flitting across her face. “Sorry I won’t have time to talk today. All play and no work makes Jo Martinez an unproductive police detective.”

Trying to hide his disappointment, he turned to retrieve a cup for her order. “Dark roast with room for cream?”

“You know me too well! If I give away any more of my secrets, I might have to kill you.” She laughed.

He grinned at the absurdity of the thought. She was certainly well trained, but he doubted she could dispose of an immortal barista—at least not permanently. He shrugged, unsure of an appropriate comeback.

“Cup of joe for Jo, coming right up.” He raised a marker to the paper cup, lingering over the curve of the letter J before taking Hanson’s order.

Predictably, Jo’s partner chose a macchiato, and the gangly one named Lucas requested a latte with enough espresso and flavor shots for five coffees. The barista was so occupied with these orders that he almost forgot there was a fourth customer waiting.

“I’d like an Earl Grey, if it isn’t too much trouble.” Looking up, he recognized the dark, slender Englishman from across the counter, but only as a dreamer recognizes a face that had belonged to a passerby in the waking world. He knew had spoken with this man, but not face to face. The past two thousand years had taught him the art of self-control, but it took every century’s worth of experience to keep the shock from forming on his face.

“Ironic, isn’t it, how the inevitable so often takes us by surprise? Hello, Adam.”

“If you’re referring to the inevitability of death, you should know by now that isn’t the case for me,” the barista said, regaining some measure of composure.

“Oh, I’m very much aware of your immortality.” A cunning smile unfurled across the man’s face. “In fact, I was referring to the inevitability of our meeting, although it has taken me two hundred years to find you. You see, I share your condition.”

Adam was shocked into silence for a moment before he briskly turned his attention to the cup in his hand.

“I’ll get that tea for you, sir. Earl Grey, was it?”

“Yes; for Henry Morgan.”

Adam felt as if it would take millennia for him to forget that name. The small task of brewing Henry’s tea could not distract him from the clammy feeling of distrust mingled with fear. It didn’t help that Henry lingered uncomfortably close to the counter instead of waiting for his order at the table with Jo and the others.

Once he had delivered the tea, Adam realized he had forgotten to put Henry’s cash in the cash register. Reaching for the bills, he found that a note had been slipped in with the payment.

 _Find an excuse to meet me in the alley in fifteen minutes,_ it read. _We have much to discuss._

Adam shivered in spite of himself, glancing at Jo’s table only to see that Henry was already looking his way.

Fifteen tedious minutes later, Adam left a young barista in charge of the counter, with the excuse that he was going to take out the trash. By the time he had deposited the garbage bag in the dumpster, Henry had not yet made an appearance. A smattering of coffee grounds littered the concrete below the dumpster. Sweeping them up was a futile task, but Adam prided himself on running a clean establishment in the heart of the city—and with a broom, he might be able to defend himself if Henry meant to harm him. He was just beginning to brush the coffee grounds away when he heard brisk footsteps behind him.

“I must say, Adam, that was the best tea I’ve tasted for the past thirty years at least,” Henry said, standing in the shadows that the coffee shop cast across the narrow alley.

Adam stood upright, gripping the broom tighter. “Well, there’s something to be said for traditional techniques. I learned from the best.”

"Indeed. I can tell you’ve spent some time in Britain, and before that, I sense some Asian influence.”

The barista sniffed and gave him a tight-lipped smile in response.

“You know, my wife used to brew an excellent cup of tea. Just the right amount of time for the exact flavor…”

“Please come to the point, Dr. Morgan,” Adam interrupted, hoping an authoritative tone would give him an advantage—or at least more confidence. “I’m sure you didn’t ask me to meet you in a back alley to discuss your wife’s tea.”

“She died because of my immortality.” Henry paused, allowing his words to sink in. “Another immortal murdered her. Yes, there is at least one other. This one was younger, some seventy years my junior, and desperately in search of a solution to our predicament. He thought I might have answers, but he couldn’t accept the fact that I was as much in the dark as he was. He grew violent; Abigail tried to protect me.” He stopped long enough to readjust his scarf with fingers that faltered with genuine emotion.

“I am sorry for your loss,” Adam said at last.

“Ah. Well.”

“If I may ask, what happened to the other immortal?”

“I tracked him down about five years ago through my work with the police department. He’s been incarcerated for Abigail’s murder, but we both know that isn’t the most fitting punishment for someone like us.”

Adam leaned against the broom. “So you want me to help you find a way to dispose of him more permanently?”

“Not exactly. I’ve had my revenge, and who knows? He could escape from prison through suicide, but he’s quite a disturbed young man; the facility has him properly restrained, and it’s only a matter of time before someone discovers his condition and keeps him under even more scrutiny. No, I am focused on a more long-term goal.”

“Oh?”

“Abigail’s death motivated me to return to the mission I’d pursued before our marriage, to find the same information the young immortal had been seeking.”

“You want to die.” By now Adam had resumed sweeping, if only to keep his hands from trembling.

“Eventually, yes. But first I want to find the root of our predicament. To…experiment.”

Something in the tone Henry used for that last word sent a shudder through Adam’s body. He recalled lifetimes of torture, institutions, concentration camps.

Henry grimaced at Adam’s reaction. “Ah, I see I am not the only one who has suffered. Don’t be alarmed—I’m not planning to cause you needless pain.”

Adam couldn’t decide which word frightened him more: “planning” or “needless”.

“No, for now I only need you to help me obtain a certain item that is essential to my experiments.”

The barista stopped sweeping. “You’ve spent this much time finding me. Haven’t you found this item by now?”

“Oh, I’ve located it. The only problem is retrieving it. You see, as much as I need this item, I do not wish to endanger my work with the police department, which you can imagine is very convenient for me at the moment.”

“Ah. And retrieval would be illegal. Stealing.”

Henry smirked. “Certainly.”

“What makes you believe I would want to work with you at all? I have a job I enjoy, as you do, and I wouldn’t want to end up like the last immortal to cross your path.”

His grin widened. “There are any number of ways I can threaten you, my friend, including but not limited to planting incriminating evidence on you and endangering your young employees. Yes, I’ve seen how you treat them—almost affectionately! It’s surprising, isn’t it, how one can still care for mortals after so long. Even the old gods had their favorite pets, but I suppose you know more about that than I do.”

Instinctively, Adam gripped the broom more firmly.

“Oh, and speaking of fondness, don’t think I haven’t noticed your feelings for Detective Martinez. I applaud your taste in women,” he said quickly. “She’s a very intelligent woman. One could spend hours talking with her and not grow disinterested. You have, I know.”

Adam’s breath caught in his chest; by now, he was nearly brandishing the broom against Henry.

“You’ve noticed I work with Jo. I spend nearly every day with her, so there are any number of ways I could injure her or put her in harm’s way. Or,” he mused, picking at the hem of his scarf with false nonchalance, “I could just seduce her myself. She’s quite an attractive woman—empirically speaking, that is.”

For the first time in centuries, the world around Adam seemed to slow its hellbent speed toward death. He pried his fingers loose from the broom and wiggled them, trying to restore a normal sensation to his mind as well as to the tight muscles in his hands.

“On the other hand,” Henry continued, “should you choose to help me, I will reward you in kind.”

He reached into his coat pocket and retrieved a cloth-wrapped object. Brushing away the folds of fabric, he revealed a dagger crusty with the grime and erosion of two millennia.

In spite of himself, Adam gasped. The last time he had seen this exact weapon, it had been dripping with blood—his own blood, and someone else’s.

Finally, he spoke. “Tell me what you need me to do.”

As Henry explained the circumstances surrounding his own death and the murder weapon he needed to proceed with his experiments, Adam couldn’t help but feel that his life had grown several shades darker than it had been before he had met this immortal doctor. Another shadow had crossed his own in the shape of Henry Morgan, and he sensed that their lives could be intertwined for a long time to come. Perhaps even forever.


End file.
